


Squished Blueberry Muffins

by DrageeKeksi



Series: Parted [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Good Parent Gil Arroyo, alternate ending - season 1, some hospital fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 05:47:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30017073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrageeKeksi/pseuds/DrageeKeksi
Summary: Sets place after Endicott's death, but Malcolm did the right thing. If only he would believe that.He visits Gil at the hospital, and they share a moment.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Series: Parted [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2208150
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	Squished Blueberry Muffins

**Author's Note:**

> Hey
> 
> I normally don't do oneshots because I need a bigger plot to start writing. Originally, this story was supposed to be the first chapter for a story that's currently in the making. I think it's neat, but I clearly wasn't satisfied with an opening like this. So, I decided to make a cut and publish it as a stand alone, but as well as some sort of teaser for what's coming next. 
> 
> Now you might ask me, dear Sir. DrageeKeksi, when exactly is the new story going to be published? The answer is, I don't know. I have like one chapter, a bunch of ideas, two other stories screaming at me, college knocking at the backdoor, and life in general getting in the way. So it's a lot. But somehow I'll manage, I always do. Somehow. 
> 
> Enough talking for now. Enjoy!

_Don't be late_

With a heavy sigh he tucks his phone into the pocket of his long winter coat. The car halts wearily, he waits patiently until it stands completely still and the cab is emitting zero movements. Then, he bends over to the front seat and pays the driver, adding a generous amount of tip. Both men share a genuine smile until their ways part, probably forever.

He's definitely going to be late.

He says his farewell to the stranger and watches him vanish in the busy traffic of New York. He turns his head, acknowledges the huge building with a sharp intake of breath. He nods to himself and sets moving towards the automatic entrance.

He walks straight up to the reception desk, shares a brief conversation with the distracted busy woman. She gives him green light, so he finds himself walking down the familiar corridor, white and stainless. Too pure, too innocent. White never really was his color.

At some point, he arrives. He stands in front of the door, a series of actions traveling through his body, deeply engraved in his bones like a tradition. Instead of entering, he takes few calming breaths, rubs both palms against each other, sways on his toes to his heels, back to his toes. His hand lands on the handle, reluctantly. He nods at the wooden door.

"Room service!" He sings into the room with a high-pitched version of his normal voice. As he gains no response, he pulls down the handle and pushes the door open, his head carrying a mischievous grin and taking a peek inside.

"You think I wouldn't recognize your voice?" The man on the bed deadpans unimpressed, yet he can detect clear signs of amusement, even the slightest twitch of the corner of the older man's mouth, no matter how much the goatee tries to cover it up.

"Get in, kiddo," The man urges him, "You're bringing cold air into the room."

He nods in agreement, stalking inside with big and chosen steps. "It's hot in here. Kind of stiffy air," He comments dryly.

"It's called cozy," The other man counters back.

He shrugs. "If you say so," He mumbles, although he's pretty sure this temperature is far past ' _cozy_ '. He marches over to the chair, plumps down like a rock. A smile decorates his face but it's clearly not reaching his eyes.

"What's bugging you, Mal?" The man notices bummed out.

He smiles. A nickname he hasn't heard in ages. He thought he had grown out of it. He used to like it, Mal, used to enjoy having a nickname. It stopped when he lost his best friend and changed schools, to Remington, a place where at least everyone could speak more than one language, including French. He used to think of it as a beautiful language. Mal means bad. He stopped liking French after the torment started to get over his head.

"I'm fine," He says, a standard answer in his repertoire of lies. He hasn't been fine for years, but that's blindly obvious.

The man pats the mattress next to him.

He shoots him an unnerved glare. "I'm fine, really, Gil," He emphasizes sternly.

Mentioned person only cocks one eyebrow. "Well, then you're doing a pretty bad job at expressing it, Malcolm," He emphasizes likewise.

Malcolm tenses up, his lips draining into a thin white line. He brainstorms for a good reply, or at least for the reason he's here in the first place. "I came to visit you," He says, "I want to know how _you're_ feeling."

Gil rolls his eyes. "I'm sick of me. The stab wound won't go away that quickly, so there's plenty of time to worry about me in the future."

"I think we never really stopped worrying about me," Malcolm realizes numbly.

Gil casts him a look, a look of worry that Malcolm has gotten so used to, he forgot it was concern induced. "That's not a bad thing, you know." He responds.

Malcolm reverts his gaze out of the window. "Probably," He murmurs, but he doesn't really get to find the sense in it.

Gil sighs heavily. "Kid," He hesitates, "Why are you here?"

Malcolm looks back at his mentor, a lifelong father figure. "What do you mean? I just wanted to see you?"

"And?" Gil adds, setting up the stage for him to continue.

"Nothing _and_ ," Malcolm imitates in a mocking tone. "Is it wrong for me to visit you?"

"No," Gil responds, his voice ending with a slight up. Malcolm expects something to follow, but nothing ever comes. He continues to stare into Gil's dark and warm eyes, finds himself losing the battle slowly.

He stands up from the hard chair and scooches over to the bed, sinking into the comfy mattress. "The last time didn't go so well. It's like, the lawyer is just making empty promises, and Ainsley is going to end up like Martin,” He confesses the worries sitting on his soul.

Gil smiles painfully. "She won't. She isn't like him, and you know that."

"I can't do a thing, Gil," Malcolm whines, a plea in his fragile blue eyes.

"That's not true," Gil objects. "You can still support her. Keep reminding the judges that it was self-defense all along. Because it was, wasn't it?"

Malcolm opens his mouth, no sound escaping except a weak whistle out of his lungs. He closes it disappointed.

"Mom's going crazy," He changes the topic. "I think I put her through hell again. First with dad, now with Ainsley. I'm a traitor at best."

"What else were your options?" Gil asks instead of offering reassurance.

Malcolm shrugs. "I don't know, cover it up I guess?"

Gil snorts. "That would've been a very, very bad idea."

"Probably," Malcolm agrees reluctantly.

Gil offers him a smile, a smile that always used to warm Malcolm's frozen heart. Before he knows it they lose on distance. Malcolm joins the position to lean his back at the head of the bed. He snuggles closely to Gil.

"When are you coming back?" He asks, but it's more a complaint. Gil's stab wound has been far more dangerous than his. While Watkin's was eager to inflict pain on Malcolm, Endicott wanted Gil dead. The knife had grazed vital organs, far too close. Recovery wasn't an easy road.

"Soon," Gil promises, but soon isn't a number. It's an undefined span of time that can vary from hours to years. Malcolm isn't satisfied by the answer, but what else did he expect when Gil follows a strict no-lie rule for Malcolm?

"Aren't you scared of the future?" Malcolm prompts, giving him an incredulous look. As it is right now, Malcolm is scared. He is that scared ten-year-old child that doesn't understand how his whole world crumbles into pieces while he watches the falling down shards powerlessly. He is about to lose his baby sister while his mother's last strap of sanity is about to snap. And Malcolm, he feels lost. He sees himself standing on an empty road, finding no solution on his right neither on his left.

"There's no need. Everything will sort itself out, you'll see," Gil assures him. Malcolm's head lolls down on Gil's shoulder.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Malcolm says. "Mother wants me to join dinner, and I'm already getting late."

His body begins to shake from the vibrations of Gil's laugh. "That's what you're afraid of?"

Malcolm huffs a smile. "You have no idea how she is alone-" His mouth stays open as it forms into a mischievous grin. "Or maybe you do, just from another perspective."

He swallows the playful punch on his shoulder.

"Stop fooling around," Gil reprimands him amused. Malcolm only grins wider.

"Are you letting her wear your turtlenecks?"

"Malcolm-"

"You have my blessing."

"What?" Gil blurts out, his eyebrows shooting up.

"I don’t mind it, whatever’s going on between the two of you. You're already my dad somehow," Malcolm explains, a soft smile indicating that the tease is already over.

"We'll see how far it goes," Gil answers.

A bing of Malcolm's phone catches both men's attention. "You got a case on your hands?" Gil asks curiously, observing how Malcolm eagerly works on unlocking his mobile and searching the message. "Hopefully," He snorts, knowing he can present an official excuse for skipping his mother's invite.

"Oh, nope," Malcolm sighs disappointed. "No case."

"That was Jessica, wasn't it?" He states carefully, but he's sure of it. He read it before Malcolm could black out the display.

Malcolm reveals a caught expression. "Maybe?" After that, another bing follows, and another one, and another one, and-

"Phew, she's persistent today," Malcolm comments exhausted.

"Alright, kiddo," Gil decides, changing his position in order to get Malcolm to leave. The young man only raises his eyebrows, unsatisfied like a pet getting urged to leave the owner's lap. He doesn't enjoy the idea of leaving. "Don't leave your mother waiting."

"Can you come with me?" Malcolm pleads, it sounds too serious for a joke. Obviously Gil can't, his wound keeps him still tied to the hospital bed.

"I would if I could, kid, now go," He says and pushes Malcolm off his mattress, carefully, so he won't rip any of the stitches open.

"Traitor," Malcolm hisses, landing with both feet on the ground and unbelievably slowly trudging to the exit.

"Yeah, yeah," Gil laughs unimpressed. He watches a solid minute until Malcolm places his hand on the door handle, and his room really isn't that big.

Malcolm's head perks up. He turns around to face Gil one last time. "I want to bake blueberry muffins tonight, after mom's dinner," He says.

Gil's eyes lighten up in delight. "Blueberry muffins?"

Malcolm nods vigorously. "Yes, Jackie's recipe. I found it a while ago. I'm stopping by tomorrow to bring you some," He promises.

Gil spreads his arms to the side. "I'll prepare some time for you then," He says, as if he has a choice. It's boring in the hospital, and he doesn't have a family anymore to come and visit him. His family is Malcolm, who stops by almost every day, so he really doesn't need to announce his visits anymore. He still does. Jessica also used to visit often, but lately the number grew smaller. He even enjoyed seeing his detectives sometimes. None of them were obligated to visit him. It's what makes Gil even happier.

"See you tomorrow," Malcolm chirps and fleets out of the room. The dark brown bob of hair disappears, and Gil can't help but feel a sting in his heart. The more he's happy they visit him, the more it hurts when they leave. He has seen Malcolm leave too often than he'd like, and sometimes he fears he will never come back. The fear is seldom, but intense.

His gaze falls upon the small slit. "Bright, close the door!" He calls after, certain the profiler still hears him. For seconds nothing happens. "Malcolm," Gil gnarls menacingly. The resurfacing footsteps are music to his ears.

"Fine, enjoy your sauna!" Malcolm barks, and the door falls shut. Gil blinks perplexed, but seconds later he falls into soft laughter. His gaze wanders to the window, outside, and up high into the grey clouded sky. He smiles.

How could he have known this would be their last time shared together?

Somehow, one is always aware, how cruelly fate can take away what you see for granted. How it will prove the evanescence of life, how brittle and fleeting it is that it will fade away into eternity.

It’s a twisted reality, really, and a tinge of bad luck, that Gil will spend hours without knowing of Malcolm’s mysterious disappearance. Days of not knowing the horrors his kid needs to endure.

And when he will stand at the crime scene, he can only pray that the months of ignorance won’t turn into years nearer to his own grave. But who will answer his prayers?

Certainly not the squished blueberry muffins.


End file.
